In search of happiness in Saint-Eustache

This story originally appeared on July 17, 2025 in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society. The original title of this article, La ballade des gens heureux (de Saint-Eustache), hinted at a song by Gérard Lenorman from 1975 that just didn't quite translate right, so we tweaked it. Sorry, Hugo.

Summer is often a time of slow news.

Not all the time, I know. Sometimes a train explodes in downtown Lac-Mégantic or a teenager is shot by police in Montréal-Nord. But generally, the news is pretty slow.

Yes, yes, there's Gaza, Ukraine, Trump, tariffs, the weather apocalypse, etc. But there comes a time when the fourth estate also wants to smear Banana Boat on its face and sit on a towel by the pool. Not the one in Jarry Park, because it's full of shady men .

So it was with this amorphous air of a soon-to-be-vacationer-who-won't-give-more-than-the-customer-demands that I came across, a few days ago, this eleventh major ranking of the happiest cities in Quebec, courtesy of the marketing research firm Léger. Basically, thousands of Canadians (36,179), half of whom are in Quebec, were surveyed and asked to evaluate their happiness index on a scale of 1 to 10.

This ranking generally allows two things:

1. Give ammunition to Montreal haters because the metropolis is still hanging around at the bottom of the rankings.
2. Allow municipalities that never make the headlines to pretend to be Pedro Pascal (looking at you, Saint-Augustin-de-Desmaures).

But what really caught my attention was the remarkable fourth position occupied by Saint-Eustache—MY former hood—which, in 2021, was ranked 71st.

But what the hell happened to make this municipality in the Lower Laurentians, famous for its Flea Market, its drive-in theatre and its cult of the rear spoiler, make a comeback even more spectacular than that of Rocky against Clubber Lang?

With my head full of questions, I set sail for Saint-Eustache, determined to carry out this career-defining investigation.

What makes the people of Eustach so happy? Is happiness wearing a plus-size suit from Habits Saint-Eustache, fishing for catfish in the Mille Îles River, or hitting the billiards tables of Le Patriote?

About 40 kilometres separate me from the answer, which I deliver by whistling, in spite of myself, Christophe Maé's unbearable earworm.

Go back to the source of happiness

I drive on the 640 until the exit at 25th Avenue.

I had no choice but to begin my quest in front of my old bungalow on rue Leclair, a stone's throw from the Flea Market.

An unexpected joy fills me as I walk through the neighbourhood of my youth: Rue de Martigny, where my friend Cormier lived. Saint-Laurent Boulevard, where condos have sprung up. Fuck, Patio Vidal has become a Dic Ann's.

Ultimately, this report will do me good. I was talking about it to my girlfriend the other day, but I think that the older I get, the more jaded I become. I don't mean to, I know I'm lucky, privileged, blah blah blah... but it happens all by itself.

I have everything in life to shout YIPPEE! while firing a gun into the air like I'm at a New Year's Eve party back in the Wild West, but something insidious keeps me from surrendering to pure, ecstatic bliss.

Is it because I've had too many threeso—I mean, a cool life? Am I just a fucking ungrateful bastard? Have I become too bourgeois to the point of losing touch with happiness in all its simplest forms?

Maybe by connecting with the people of Saint-Eustache, I'll get a boost of euphoria. Maybe by osmosis.

My old bungalow hasn't changed much. The ground is a bit rough, though. My father, who has won the Maisons fleuries competition many times, would totally flip.

But I talk myself down from the idea of knocking on the door.

"Hi, I used to live here, hehe! It was in the basement bedroom that Mélanie took my virginity, lol! Did you keep the laundry chute?"

A man and his thing

Past the roundabout, I spot two familiar faces in a driveway.

Claude and Marie, Stéphane’s parents—my former best friend—and the unshakable elders of the street. "We’ve been here for 44 years," calculates the ever-amiable Claude, still sturdy as an oak despite the passage of time. A man in shape, always tinkering in the yard or with his car, a 1973 Volkswagen Thing that—by his own admission—adds to his happiness.

"It’s incredible how many smiles you can get just driving around in this thing," Claude points out.

Besides his ride, he believes that the proximity to shops, highways, and a concert hall that draws all the big names (Le Zénith) also adds to the neighbourhood’s good mood. "Sure, we grumbled a lot after the big floods the other day, but as much as we blame people, it’s mostly the fault of climate change," Claude concedes.

It's the little joys, old pal

A young mom behind a stroller slips into the house next door.

No choice but to probe a young family on the secret to local happiness. I wave goodbye to Claude and hurry over to the house where my friend Martin and his sister, the lovely Véronique, once lived.

"So what’s the buzz with Saint-Eustache?" I ask, in my best Maxime Coutié-on-Tout un matin voice.

"We love having access to everything we need, and it still feels peaceful even as the city grows (47,500 people in 2024)," says Sabrina, flanked by baby Alice and her partner Guillaume.

Yeah. Access to amenities and proximity to the highways wouldn’t exactly top my list of thrill-inducing perks, but I’m here to learn.

I leave the family with the reminder that happiness may just lie in life’s simple little things (awwww!).

A Spyder to get my mojo back

On Rue Joyal, the sight of two little kids playing driveway hockey makes me nostalgic.

Back on 25th Avenue, I stop at the Maxi where I worked five years as a grocery clerk. Back then it was a Provigo, and I still remember the code for red grapes (4023).

I also still remember Anne the cashier, har, har, har.

Anyways, I loop the store twice and don’t recognize a soul.

"Hugo? Hugo Meunier? Legendary grocery clerk circa 1997–2002?! No?!"

No one remembers me.

This realization—that we’re all just a tiny blip in the universe—seriously trips up my quest for happiness.

Find my mojo, I must.

I’ve barely started talking in Yoda-speak when a guy on a Spyder motorbike rolls past in the parking lot.

Unhappy, this man cannot be, I tell myself as I take off after him.

I catch up with him a bit further at Subway, where he’s grabbing lunch on his break from dispatching 911 calls. “I think it’s the whole small-town suburb thing. People feel safe,” muses André, before riding off on his steed with a wave goodbye.

The awakening of happiness

My pilgrimage takes me to Old Saint-Eustache, in the shadow of the old church, whose walls still bear the marks of English cannonballs—a rare relic of the Patriotes’ rebellion of 1837.

To try to understand why happiness is on the rise around here, I drop by L’Éveil, the local paper that first gave me a shot. After all, it’s common knowledge that journalists know everything.

I show up unannounced and end up in the (beautiful) office of editor-in-chief Dany Baribeau.

"The close-knit community, the buy-local vibe that’s grown since the pandemic, and a strengthened sense of safety," lists my former colleague, also pointing to a thriving cultural scene and a new Saturday public market on Rue Saint-Eustache.

Happiness by the shore

I walk past the old bar Chez O’Blix, where I blew out my first brain cells. To my dismay, it’s now a restaurant.

Down by the Mille Îles River, plenty of people are enjoying the sunshine. Ariane and Marie-France are getting ready to head back out on their paddleboards. "It’s mostly muddy," explains Marie-France, as I look on in horror at young people wading into the brown water where I never once dared dip even a pinky toe.

Maybe the water quality has improved, and maybe that adds to residents’ happiness. The Seine and the Mille Îles River: same struggle.

"Old Saint-Eustache is pretty, the town feels safe, and the kids still go to the Pat (Le Patriote billiards)," says Ariane, who, like her friend, still thinks she might leave Saint-Eustache one day.

Having been there myself, I remind them that you can take someone out of Saint-Eustache, but you can never take Saint-Eustache out of them (yes, I went there).

On the riverbank, Elyanna and Joshua are picnicking on a blanket with a wicker basket. The young couple practically oozes happiness—it’s almost annoying. He praises the town’s simplicity, she points to an artisanal bakery, the rural vibe, and the area’s rich history.

A stone’s throw from the church, I have no choice but to make a pit stop at Les Habits Saint-Eustache, a local mainstay for 54 years and counting.

There I run into Carl Cloutier, the former co-owner and son of the founder, who still puts in a few days a week at the shop. He doesn’t remember me, but the last time I saw him I was a reporter at L’Éveil, doing a story on his double life as shopkeeper and magician. More than twenty years later, he thinks he’s found a clue to the happiness around here. "We don’t have political controversies. The mayor’s been doing a good job for a few terms now. And we’ve got the Zénith," says Cloutier.

A few caveats

I can’t resist swinging by old pool hall Le Patriote, where I also spent plenty of time back in the day. On the way, I pass the schoolyard at École Clair Matin, swarming with dozens of kids in day camps.

Le Patriote is empty, except for the regulars glued to the video lottery machines.

"When you see the number of homeless people on the streets or the suicide rate, I don’t see what makes people so joyful," sighs Mel, the barmaid—a rare discordant voice amid all the bliss I’ve heard so far.

This Debbie Downer of the 450 thinks the survey should be taken with a grain of salt, pointing instead to flooding, uprooted trees, and the overbuilding of condo towers.

"I’d say we were happier before. If they’d called me for the survey, I would’ve said: look, screw you, go deal with the real problems," she jokes—or maybe not.

Still, she acknowledges the effort to preserve a small-town feel and the beauty of Old Saint-Eustache.

At a gas station on Chemin Grande-Côte, I stumble into Marianne, a new Eustachian who isn’t exactly living a fairy tale in her adopted town. "I think it would take more changes for people to actually stay," she notes, without elaborating.

Riding the wave

Before heading out, I’ve got a meeting at Olympia Park with Marc Lamarre, a former high-school star and aspiring mayor of Saint-Eustache.

No joke—a genuinely nice guy, and no one from my generation is surprised to see him wade into politics. A city councillor for 16 years, he’s the heir apparent to current mayor Pierre Charron. And wouldn’t you know it, but I actually run into the mayor himself in his car after a press conference at the park about rolling out Bixi in Saint-Eustache. Now that’s progress. Because launching a Bixi network in Saint-Eustache is kind of like offering a vegetarian menu at the Festival du Cochon in Sainte-Perpétue.

"It’s nice to be recognize; as soon as the survey came out, people were stopping me in the grocery store to tell me how proud they were," says Mayor Charron on the fly, taking the opportunity to boast about his record.

With municipal elections coming this fall, he doesn’t hide the fact that the timing couldn’t be better.

"We’ve done a lot. We’re close to citizens and we listen," adds Marc Lamarre, pointing to the creation of 14 pickleball courts, the planting of thousands of trees, and the Grande Tablée du Marché, which draws crowds every Saturday.

He doesn’t bury his head in the sand either, acknowledging that this happiness is fragile. "We opened a homeless resource, and we know that stirs concern. Same with traffic problems. We’re working on it," he assures.

By the end of the day, I admit I leave my old hometown a little happier. The only thing missing from this piece would be a quote from Koriass, its most famous ambassador. I swear I tried to reach him, but they probably found my request too harebrained.

My happiness is quickly compromised, though, by the traffic on Arthur-Sauvé.

No choice but to hum some Michel Rivard to hang on to the joy:

T’as eu la chienne

J’ai eu d’la peine

Maudit Bonheur

T’as eu ma peau, t’as eu ma peau.

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